


And Swallow You Up

by halotolerant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode: s02e09 Shiizakana, Episode: s02e10 Naka-Choko, Finger Sucking, First Kiss, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s02e08 Su-zakana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time was the night they took Peter Bernadone’s social worker out of a horse; a day with the bar set high for weird experiences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Swallow You Up

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: _Will loves to suck Hannibal's dick, he likes to just have it n his mouth aaaaaaaand Hannibal like the strokes will's hair ahhhhhhhhhh ;-; pls write something that involves that I need this like air_
> 
> It got angsty. This is basically S2 canon + sexual content, and that should hopefully be the most comprehensive warning I could give *g*

The first time was the night they took Peter Bernadone’s social worker out of a horse; a day with the bar set high for weird experiences. 

 

Will’s brain had been closing in, the splintering panic pushing and herding his thoughts, and the anger, the rage against… all of it: Hannibal. The world. The FBI. Himself, being there, when he could have been in Florida or Alaska or Colombia or Spain, or anywhere but trapped in a barn with two psychopaths, one covered in amniotic fluid. 

 

Hannibal’s hands had come in, though. Hannibal’s hands, one to the gun and then the other to Will’s neck, and slow and steady, and cool - Hannibal ran cold to his hot, always had, there was a metaphor for you, and the equalization between them when they touched was only the first law of thermodynamics. 

 

Hannibal knew Will wanted to kill him - had said as much - and all the same had cradled his head and called him a butterfly. 

 

And the next decision Will made had been to accept the offer of dinner - not an inappropriate pace of intimacy for their new association, Hannibal invited everyone to dinner, of course he did - and the decision after that, somehow (give or take choosing an oyster dish over crab and refusing parmesan-scattered parsnip crisps) had been to go and stand by Hannibal, as he cooked, and to make his body language open, and wait to be kissed. 

 

Of course Hannibal wanted to kiss him. Will had known that from when they met, except he hadn’t, because Hannibal wanting to kiss someone and Hannibal longing to dissect someone under a microscope is the same look, and Will’s only ever observed it directed at himself. 

 

He hates Hannibal Lecter. He wants to kill Hannibal Lecter. 

 

None of those emotions conflict with kissing the subject of them - he’s worked enough homicides to know that - and it had made sense, hadn’t it? This is his trap to bait and here’s the bait he’s using, and maybe it’s more than he needs but why not? When he’d talked to Jack about it, they’d agreed he might end up having to kill in the cause of catching Hannibal and that his undercover work would excuse it - so why not this too?

 

They’d kissed for ten minutes or so, and then the oven had to be turned off. Will had been aroused, more aroused than he’d expected, and less embarrassed. Then they’d eaten dinner, and Will had gone home. Before Will left, Hannibal had kissed him again next to his front door, and used his tongue to open Will’s mouth, and Will had stroked it with his own, and Hannibal had laughed, and so Will had held his gaze and lightly taken Hannibal’s wrist, drawn his hand to his mouth and sucked his fingers, salt and citrus and something metallic from the cutlery, or maybe blood, soaked deep, coppery. 

 

Hannibal’s mouth opened a bit, then. 

 

-

 

After Will put Randall on Hannibal’s dining table, Hannibal crowded up close, and kissed him again. Will had known that would come, or thought so, or hoped so - he _had_ to hope so, because Hannibal wanting him was Hannibal trusting him, at least enough to slip up, at least enough to miss the sight of the noose till he was strung in it. 

 

Will’s glad Matthew Brown failed, really. He needed to be there. He wants to be there. He will be there, when the reckoning comes and Hannibal finally is - imagine Hannibal, naked and dangling and trembling and bloody. 

 

Hannibal trembled when Will took his wrist again - only for a moment, only as much as anyone might, but Hannibal isn’t anyone - and before Will had even got the fingers into his mouth. Hannibal had been reading a book, his fingertips were ink and paper, and when Will had killed Tier he’d tasted Hannibal’s skin in the back of his throat. Part of him wanted to be sick then, and he brought his teeth together - just like Tier never would again - and Hannibal let him, like some sort of teething puppy, smirking the way he did, Will’s prize - Hannibal’s prize - on the table still beside them. 

 

So Will had put his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders and dragged him down, down, until Hannibal was lying on the floor, and then Will got his trousers open and then his own mouth. 

 

“Take whatever you need,” Hannibal had said, incomprehensibly, (superciliously), one hand going to Will’s head, not pushing, just combing through his hair. 

 

Will wished Hannibal would be a bastard about it, demanding, punishing, dominant, wanting Will’s mouth like he wanted… He _wanted_ Will, how was that? How did that fit anything? How did that leave them where they were now? And Will wanted to hate him. 

 

Will did hate him. Will hates Hannibal Lecter. 

 

Hannibal’s cock had been thick and strangely perfect - no one looked like a picture in an anatomy book, Will’s sex ed teacher had said once, but Hannibal did. 

 

Hannibal didn’t deserve to inhabit a human body, and it hadn’t mattered how it had felt, how Will had gotten harder himself with each press of the head against the roof of his mouth, that was probably just what giving head to a guy did to him, wasn’t like he had a point of comparison. 

 

He could taste Hannibal getting excited by it. Will would do something and then, there, a thin musky pulse, disgusting and then not, like you wanted to try again just to see if it was as unpleasant as you’d thought. 

 

Did Alana do this for Hannibal? Would he taste her there, on the skin, if he knew what he was looking for? He can’t remember how her lips had been, now. 

 

Will’s jaw had started to ache well before it seemed like Hannibal would come. He didn’t want to switch to his hand, though - the point of this wasn’t getting Hannibal off, or at least, whatever the point of this was it wasn’t that. He actually hadn’t tried sucking, nervous of the taste, but when he did, Hannibal’s thighs twitched and one of his hands lifted off the floor. Hannibal was three-quarters sitting up and bent in half to watch Will - to be read to defend himself? - and Will wanted to bite his throat out or make him shatter, and orgasm would do. 

 

-

 

Then in the supply cupboard at the Museum of Natural History, Hannibal having viewed Will’s work. 

 

Like some sort of bad movie cliché, crushed in with mops and buckets, and Will’s trousers round his ankles and Hannibal’s fly open and both of them in Hannibal’s still-gloved hand, and Hannibal pressed two fingers into Will’s mouth, and Will hoped his saliva ruined the leather, and Will wanted to scream, and couldn’t. 

 

-

 

And now, with ‘Freddie’ in a packet on the kitchen counter, and Hannibal glowing at him, and Will grasping hold, desperate for the cold of Hannibal’s skin, for the reality of it, of this, and not getting it, because Hannibal is warm now, today, flushed with delight in him.

 

Hannibal tongues around his ear, and Will wonders if Hannibal thinks of the significance of that, and supposes he thinks of everything. 

 

So how can Hannibal not know about the trap? Does Hannibal know? Does Hannibal hate him already or not yet or never or always? 

 

Will hates Hannibal, and he moans and gets his hands up under Hannibal’s shirt and maps planes of skin and acres of flesh and all the person suit that breathes and shudders so convincingly. Hannibal pushes their hips together, and Will palms at his ass and wonders if Hannibal would even let him in there, and cries out, and turns them so that Hannibal is pressed against the counter. 

 

Will goes to his knees. 

 

Hannibal’s cock in his mouth is soothing, stupidly so. The pitch and slide against Will’s tongue, the way that lights him up, the way Hannibal’s hands work in his hair and Hannibal’s seminal fluid escapes and that is not a lie, that one fixed point is absolutely true. 

 

“Will, please…” Hannibal says, gasping like he’s hurt. “Let me…”

 

He’s trying to urge Will back; wants something else. 

 

Will takes him deep and sucks hard and drinks his come like water. Salt water. Cry me a river or come me one. And he keeps mouthing at Hannibal’s cock, after, though it has to hurt - because it has to hurt, that’s a good reason for it - and suckles and laves, his own cock hard and crushed against his jeans. 

 

Hannibal isn’t really human, of course, and he gets hard all over again in Will’s mouth, and his hands at Will’s temple are just a little shaky. 

 

“Will,” Hannibal says, and Will shows no mercy, just like won’t, just like he doesn’t want to, and sucks harder. 

 


End file.
